New Year’s Eve in Lisdoonvarna

Everybody knows it’s usually not good to speak too soon. But sometimes we are so positive about something, that we forget about it. Luckily, life is always ready to send us a reminder.

This note from life came to me on New Year’s Eve, after I had spent all day repeating how great 2017 had been.

The plan for the night wasn’t the easiest. Mr J was playing with the band in a little town in the middle of nowhere on the lunar hills of the Burren, Lisdoonvarna. Unfortunately, nobody in the band could give a lift to me and my namesake friend on the way out.

Therefore, we had to opt for a one hour and 41 minutes bus journey (for a distance that a car would cover in about half the time).

At 6pm on December 31st, we were on the bus (Serena arriving at the very last minute, just to add some adrenalin), together with an old bus driver, and another couple of crazy people who then got off at some villages impossible to recall.

And so we left, heading towards the pitch dark Irish countryside, guessing stony hills and the black sea waters mingled to our faces reflected in the window, snooping in the rare lighted up houses.
Half way there, and our voices started to change, turning deeper and more feeble, until we stopped talking. Serena broke the silence to ask: “Do you think we’re gonna puke?”

I opened a plastic bag and took out a little ginger essential oil bottle. As it is so often described as a natural miracle against nausea, I started inhaling from that desperately. I almost even stopped noticing the disgusting smell.

After too many, too long minutes, I declare that my natural remedy is a failaure. I closed the little bottle, threw it in my pocket, and opened the plastic bag, announcing: “Sere, time has come for me”, and I puked.

Serena, as the true friend she is, moved fast to hide to the seat behind mine, providing tissues and support from a distance.

All of this with only 5km left to arrival.

I made myself decent again just as the driver called our long-awaited stop. I put on my best smile, thanked the old man, and almost hugged the rubbish bin that was waiting for me there.
The woman who was sitting on the front must have noticed our movements and muttered something to the driver, since he went for a little walk up and down the bus. Happy not to find any souvenir, he left with a smile. I almost felt like waving goodbye.

But we were in Lisdoonvarna! Time to start celebrating, with a nice dinner.

We saw a little hotel/restaurant on the lovely square, adorned with a colourful Christmas tree and the bronze statues of two smiley dancing couples. The name of the place was Ritz, and I said it sounded very promising.

No.

The barmaid said that the only two places serving food on that night were a pub up the road and the Chinese. We decided to follow the instructions of a nice old man, who said “The pub is just after the church, you can’t miss it”.

We entered the place, and we were greeted by a note that said: “Kitchen closed at 7.30pm”. It was 8pm.

We gave up and went to the Chinese restaurant, where they didn’t even bothered setting the tables or turning the heating on – the waitress was working with her coat on.

At the Chinese, where they still (or already) had decorations for St. Patrick’s

We sat at a table by the window, to enjoy the panoramic view of the happy square and a crossroad.

Meanwhile, I had told Mr J about my misadventure, and I could see him laughing in the van with the drummer.

I didn’t have to wait too long to really see him passing by the window on their red van, waving and laughing.

Dinner over – we even treated ourselves to a weirdly frozen strawberry cheesecake and a watery coffee – we spotted the bass guitarist passing by, we called him from the window, and he came in, saying: “Hello! The pub we’re playing at is full of people! And there is food! We didn’t know! Follow me, or you’ll have to pay the ticket to get in”.

At the entrance, he introduced us to the owner as the singer’s and drummer’s wives. Then he went to the tickets woman, and explained that I was the singer’s wife and Serena the guitarist’s. Well, they got we were with the band anyway.

The only thing we were told days before about the venue was that it was a bikers’ place. So I was wearing black jeans and boots, and Serena a jeans mini-skirt. As we entered we were overwhelmed by man in suits and women in long and sparkly dresses.

The lively Lisdoonvarna was all there, in that big tent with a big bar and a huge stage – I saw Mr J and the guys in real action for the first time on a professional stage!

The rest of my third Irish New Year’s Eve was great, and the journey back home by car went nice and smooth – and fast.